


Blood And Grace

by Langerhan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Post-War, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Top Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-06 00:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan
Summary: Michael was always beautiful on the battlefield and Carmine Zuigiber was her biggest cheerleader.





	Blood And Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [improfem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/improfem/gifts).

> Happy birthday!

Carmine Zuigiber sat at a table in what had once been a nice little café with her jacket open and her legs akimbo. If the owner was still around, he'd have scolded her to be more ladylike, as he had done several times in the past week; however, he was dead and Carmine was no lady. A few savvy politicians had pointed out recently that she spent much more time with women than with men, but so did Mr Sable and nobody had ever told him to be more elegant in his duties. 

She had heard from one of her sources that she'd be getting the old gang back together within a decade so she'd come to the village on a working holiday. Plenty of students liked to do the same thing, although unlike her few of them would be returning home.

“_Carmine_,” that same source said in the same tone of voice a tired parent might say the name of a child who'd forgotten to feed his hamster, “you could have at least let me done a few blessings first.” 

“_Michael_,” Carmine replied in almost the same tone with only half a degree of mockery, “this was nothing to do with heavenly bodies. It was all free will down here.” 

Michael sat down opposite Carmine, folding balletically while remaining as starched and upright as ever. Despite all the carnage, some of which had dried in speckles across Carmine's face, Michael's clothes remained immaculate. 

“I suppose,” she conceded, “it was all in accordance with the divine plan.” 

There it was. The little pool that Carmine wanted to dig her fingers into, clawing it open and smearing it like blood across her mouth. The beauty she'd seen in the first ever war, the one that she let thrill her corporation in very human ways when she was bored and waiting for the next sabre, or dynamite, or machine gun, or whatever humans were going to think of to help them leave early in the decade or so they had left. The thing twisted up inside of Michael that let her think of her soldiers as disposable and scars as inevitable. Carmine wanted to drink it up like vodka on a cold night in Kyiv. 

“Oh, definitely. You know the divine plan covers all bloodbaths.”

Michael looked across at her sharply. “Ours was nothing like this.” 

“Nothing ever will be,” Carmine replied, and reached a hand across the table to run her thumb over Michael's gilded scars. “Yours was beautiful. The humans might have imagination, but you – Michael, you made poetry on that battlefield.” 

Michael never made the first move. She had always been a holy point of stillness amongst the thousands of crusades Carmine had been there for. All she needed to do was to tilt her head and close her eyes in a way that demanded Carmine pay attention. 

And Carmine knew how to pay attention. She was good at that. She slid a hand down the front of Michael's blazer, leaving trails of viscera dripping from her ruffles. Carmine's sharp scarlet nails ran over Michael's nipples (and oh, if Michael had ever breathed, she would have gasped) and managed to illicit a slight shudder from the archangel. 

“You packing anything down there today?” Carmine asked lowly, her voice thick with cordite and copper. 

Michael wriggled in reply, letting her trousers pool down by her knees. 

“Like Eve, huh? Well, I'm sure we can have some fun with that.” 

Carmine has, in fact, had much fun with that before, both on Michael and on other people. She ran a finger firmly from where Michael's navel would be if she had one to where her cunt had started to percolate golden grace onto the bullet-scarred wooden chair. Michael gave a high-pitched whine that continued until Carmine kissed her silent, one hand round her throat while the other slipped a finger inside her.

“More,” Michael muttered into Carmine's mouth, “I want more.” 

Carmine drew her finger up and painted Michael's mouth gold to match her scars. It was beautiful. She was beautiful, and Carmine wanted to watch her writhe. For a moment she considered pulling the pistol from her holster and fucking her with it, watching her teeter on the edge of orgasm and terror, but she knew the archangel would never forgive her if she blew a hole through this corporation. Instead she kissed her again, pressing their teeth together until their lips started to bleed and licking the grace from inside her mouth.

Carmine knocked the table over – quicker than scraping it across the stone floor – and dug her nails into Michael's pale thighs – not pointed enough to bleed, but hard enough to bruise. When she was finally wide open and shining in the sunlight that filtered through the bullet holes in the walls, Carmine dropped to her knees and started to feast. 

The wooden chair rocked backwards as Carmine thrust two fingers up inside her, enjoying the seemingly infinite complexity the archangel had manifested for herself. She traced her tongue carefully around her fingers, licking and sucking more gently than anyone might have expected for the living embodiment of war. 

Michael wove a hand through Carmine's hair and started to pull. Carmine added another finger and twisted, looking for any spot that would make Michael whine like she'd done earlier. Gold pooled in her mouth and she swallowed eagerly, only stopping to spit when she thought she was close to choking on the infinite grace flowing from the archangel beneath her. 

When Michael grunted with the same eagerness she'd used on the battlefield, Carmine could feel her stomach tighten. She withdrew her fingers and scratched quickly up her thighs, leaving golden welts while she drove her tongue up inside her, moaning into the glory of her cunt until Michael came, tightening around Carmine's mouth with a small cry. 

They stayed like that for a while, Carmine's head on Michael's bare thigh, stroking her hair. 

“Well,” the archangel finally said in a tone that let Carmine know this was definitely over, “that was nice.” 

“I'll be seeing ya,” Carmine replied, and kissed her thigh as gently as she thought Michael would let her get away with. “Before the end, I hope.” 

Michael stood up. Her trousers pulled themselves up and her shirt made itself clean. “Perhaps.” 

Then she was gone, leaving only a bright glow and a broken chair. 

Carmine picked up her bag and her rifle and slung them both over her shoulder. She knew she'd see Michael again, and next time she'd be even more beautiful than the last. It was less than a decade, after all, and she was looking forward to it.


End file.
